How Much a Jester is Worth
by Mista Mugs
Summary: Little is known of Yorick, the jester from Hamlet's past. But now, his life has been revealed.


How Much a Jester is Worth  
"Yorick? Open your eyes Yorick." A frightened young voice said.  
Yorick heard the voice vaguely, as if across a great distance, and he struggled to do as the voice asked. His eyelids responded slowly and light leaked into his eyes. Blurry images assaulted his eyes and a groan escaped his lips.  
Slowly, his vision cleared and he saw a child standing above him. The child's blonde hair was messy and his green eyes held unshed tears.  
"How are you feeling, Yorick?" The child said, trying to mask his fear in a facade of maturity. "Does it hurt much?"  
At those words Yorick began to feel the pain shooting through his body. Trying to recall what happened brought another groan to his lips.  
Astonished at the amount of effort speaking took, Yorick said, "Worry not young Hamlet. I've felt worse pain than this."  
The tears Hamlet held back began to fall in a flood now. With great effort Yorick put his hand over the smaller child's hand on his chest. Hamlet grasped the hand and clutched it tightly.  
"I'll go get someone. A doctor, my father!" the child said through sobs.  
Yorick almost sent the boy but he knew it was useless. The dagger that had been sent into his stomach and the following fall from the window had all but ensured his death.  
"Do not trouble yourself, Hamlet. Your Danish doctors are more butchers then surgeons. Just sit with me awhile."  
Hamlet tried to choke back his tears but failed. "But there's so much blood. You might..." He trailed off into another sob.  
"All thing that live must eventually die, Hamlet. If it were not so it would be a very crowed place we live in indeed." Yorick said.  
Hamlet laughed inspite of himself. The laugh died quickly though and Hamlet said, "I don't think I could live if you died, Yorick."  
Yorick managed a weak laugh. "I think you will Hamlet. You are stronger than you think. And besides, I think you'll probably laugh with your friends about how a stink when I do die."  
Another giggle climbed up Hamlet's throat. Yorick smiled and laughed a bit himself. The laugh cost him pain though, and another goran escaped his lips.  
"Hamlet." Yorick said, serious now. "Do you remember the question I always asked you?"  
Hamlet smiled sadly as he quoted Yorick. " 'How do you know the worth of yourself?' I remember it Yorick."  
"Good. Keep that question in your mind always, Hamlet. And ask yourself it when you question your actions or even your own existence. It will help you, I think." Yorick began to cough and he tasted blood. "Hamlet, I do not think I have long. I am sorry to leave you like this." Hamlet seemed about to burst into even more tears and Yorick searched for a way to forestall the tears. "Hamler, did I ever tell you that I was born in London?" Hamlet nodded. "Did I? I must be losing my memory in this dusty old castle. Well, I'm sure I didn't tell you of my life before coming here."  
  
*****  
  
A boy of about ten years sits on the floor of a bare house. His hands are dirty, as are his feet, and his hair seems almost too long for his face. He wears only a patchy pair of under-sized pants and a thin cotton shirt.  
In front of him stands his father, speaking to another man. The other man seems out of place with the surroundings and the young boy hugs his knees. He does not like the stranger.  
"So you'll take the boy?" His father says. When the man nods the father speaks again. "Good. He has nothing to take that is his own so you can take him now."  
The man walks over to the boy and crouches down beside him. He inspects the boy for a bit and says, "You look like you can walk. Get up and be quiet."  
The boy stands up and clamps his mouth shut tightly. He watches as money is exchanged from the man's pockets to his father's hands. Understanding finally dawns on the boy and he catches his father's eyes. Pleading silently not to be taken away he clenches his teeth even harder to keep from crying.  
"Take him quickly. I want not to see him again." His father says, turning away from the boy.  
The man snorts softly and motions for the boy to follow him. The boy does so, his eyes glaring into the man's back. He refuses to look back at the house where his first betrayal has taken place.  
  
*****  
  
A man stands over top of a boy whose age appears to be around thirteen years old. He holds a birch branch in one hand and his other hand is clenched in a fist.  
"You will do as I say when I say, boy. Do you understand?" He says, shaking the branch menacingly.  
The boy nods, all the time glaring at the man. He does not shed tears and refuses to speak to the man.  
The man, in turn, sniffs at the boy. "Glare all you like, but you will entertain the people I bring to you. And try not to get caught stealing their purses."  
The boy clenches his teeth and nods again. Slowly, he unclenches his teeth and says, "The bastard did sell me to you, so I have no choice. But you cannot expect me to enjoy it."  
The man laughs coldly. "I expect you to pretend you enjoy it."  
As the man leaves the room the boy glares at him. He refuses to cry and he refuses to be goaded into another beating. The only thing that keeps him from ending his life is the hope that one day he will see the man dead before him.  
  
*****  
  
The man gurgles as his blood pumps from his slashed throat. The boy stands over top of him and watches coldly as the man dies in front of him.  
"You deserve it, whoreson. For five years of beatings and rapes of my body and mind. How many other children have you forced to work for you, you bastard?" the child says coldly.  
The man's eyes soon darken and he ceases to make noises. The child drops the dagger he holds in his hands and stumbles against the wall. Sliding down the wall he begins to breath heavily and tears well up in his eyes. He has never killed anything in his life and despite how much he hated the man that lies before him he still feels bile rise in his throat. Swallowing fiercely he forces himself not to cry. He stands and stares at the blood on his hands.  
Opening the door behind him he flees into the alley, never looking back.  
  
*****  
  
A boy of seventeen years lies in the street of an English town whose name he cannot remember. He groans in pain as he clutches his stomach. He has contracted some kind of sickness recently and his entire midsection burns. Beside his head is a puddle of the boy's vomit and in the vomit there is blood visible.  
People walking by him avoid him in fear that he has the plague and some even pause to spit at him. The boy barely notices them. It takes most of his strength to prevent himself from passing out.  
He notices a man standing over top of him and realizes that he must have been standing there for a while. The man wears a bright orange cloak but that is all he sees before he slips into darkness.  
The boy awakens in what appears to be a modestly furnished room. He notices that the burning in his stomach has died down to a dull ache and he finds that he can think clearly now. Looking around he sees the man whom he presumes has saved him sitting next to him in a wooden chair.  
"You're awake now. Took you a bit, didn't it?" He says, leaning back slightly and smiling.  
The boy swallows into a dry throat and says, "How long was I asleep?"  
"About a week. You were close to death when I found you. You would be amazed what a few herbs can do for a person. My name's Yorick."  
The boy swallows again. "I'm Mathew. Were am I?"  
Yorick laughs. "My house. Worry not, it's my treat." He stands. "I'll be back in a bit. I'm going to get you something to eat. How does a chicken broth sound?"  
  
*****  
  
Mathew stands in a modestly furnished room and frowns at Yorick. He has stayed with Yorick for two seasons and he still finds the jester an enigma. He entertains people as a fool, one who can juggle, tumble, jest, and take abuse for the laughter of the crowd and their coin. Yet he seems to understand politics, people, and many other things.  
Yorick snaps his fingers and says, "Pay attention, Mathew. If you want to make coin you must know how to at least juggle."  
Yorick begins to toss two balls in the air between his hands and then adds a third. Mathew watches as Yorick adds a fourth, then a fifth to the display. Then Yorick begins to toss the balls in patterns that leave Mathew staring in wonderment.  
Yorick laughs at Mathew's expression. "Try it." With that he tosses the balls to Mathew he drops all but two, which he clumsily juggles between his hands. "Get ready. I'm going to throw a third in." A third ball joins the uneven tosses that Mathew is throwing but eventually the three seem to be working together.  
"Very good. You can stop now." Mathew lets the balls fall to the ground. Yorick shakes his head. "No, no, no. Never allow the balls to fall. It gives the audience the impression that you are only lucky and not skilled and that will cost you a lot of coin in the end. Watch this."  
Yorick begins to juggle three balls and soon adds four more. A grin breaks out on his face as he juggles figure eights and then switches to juggling with one hand behind his back tossing the balls forward over his head to the other hand. He does this for a few minutes and then stops with all the balls in his hands.  
"That is how one juggles." He says.  
*****  
  
Mathew kneels before a bed where a feverous man lays, covered in quilts. He holds the man's hand and tears are threatening to spill from his eyes.  
The man looks up and smiles softly. "You wear such a long face for me friend?"  
Mathew responds, "I cannot help it, Yorick. I do not think I could live without you."  
"Of course you will. You know everything I know and will probably learn more. You are a man now, twenty years old, and you have the knowledge of someone twice your age crammed into that skull of yours." Yorick says. After talking though, he breaks into an alarmingly long fit of coughing.  
"Yorick, don't die. Please. You must live. We could travel together. We could even go to Denmark and see Elsinore Castle. So don't die." Mathew says.  
Yorick gazes at Mathew fondly, like a father, and says, "My dear, dear, friend. All that lives must die. If it did not we would all be very crowded."  
Mathew gives a sad laugh. "I love you, friend."  
"As I do you." Yorick's face turns serious. "Mathew, remember what I am about to tell you even if you remember nothing else you have learnt from me." Mathew nods. "Always keep this questions close to you. 'How does one know ones own worth.' It will help you through hard times that are coming." Yorick breaks into another coughing fit. As it dies down he says, "I think my time has come, Mathew. Remember that someone did love you and that not all people intend you harm."  
Mathew grips Yorick's hand even tighter and says, "Don't talk like that. You might convince yourself that you are to die." He trails off as he feels the other man's grip loosen in his hand. He feels a sob crawling up his throat as Yorick's head lulls to one side.  
The tears he has kept within himself his entire life rush to the surface and he find himself hugging Yorick's body to his own, sobbing. It seems to him that hours pass when he finally lowers the body to the bed. He feels hollow and his eyes burn. He stands slowly and turns to the bedside table. Slowly, he reaches for a few items he knows Yorick would have liked him to have. A bag of colored balls, a painted mask, a pair of false bucktooth teeth. Taking these things he walks towards the door and opens it. Without looking back he leaves the house.  
*****  
  
A man of in his early twenties stands in front of a crowded inn common room and performs fro them. His juggling astounds them and the back flips and cartwheels he performs are well received. He weaves tales into his act and the pot set out for coin is soon filled. At the end of his act he bows deeply to the crowd and gathers the coin the people of the inn have paid him with. As he pads his many pockets with different coins he looks up to see a man staring at him. He offers him a smile. "May I ask your name sir?" the man asks. The performer looks at him a bit and says, "M-Yorick." The hesitation is offset by the man's smile. "Yes, my name is Yorick. A juggler, tumbler, tale-spinning, joke-throwing fool. And you are?" "Andrew." The man says with a small smile. "I may have a proposition for you. Join me for a drink?" Yorick steps down from the small stage he had been standing on and gives a laugh. " 'Never turn down a drink.' A friend of mine once told me that." The two sit down and the man named Andrew orders them both an ale. Turning back to Yorick he says, "I was wondering, as I watched your performance, why a man obviously as talented as you are is wasting his time working for such small coin when he could be making a fortune else where." Yorick lifts his eyebrows. "A fortune? For my pitiful skills? You jest with me, sir Andrew." "No jest. I could market you better than fruit. Kings would pay you handsome wages to perform for them." Andrew says, as their drinks are set before them. Yorick takes a long pull from his mug and sets it down slowly. "Which kings are we talking about? I will tell you now, I refuse to go to England." Andrew frowns. "Well, that is of little matter. Jesters are not in as high as demand there as they are elsewhere in Europe. What would you say about France? Or Italy? Even Denmark would welcome one with as much skill as you show." Yorick pauses in the middle of another drink. He sets the mug down softly and says, "Denmark?" Andrew leans forward. "Yes. Denmark. I could have passage on the next ship there if you want." He leans back again, a small smile playing on his lips. "Of course, you would.share your fortune with me, would it be." Yorick smiles sardonically. "Of course." Standing he says, "Well, sir Andrew. I think it would be best for you to get down to the docks. I have heard that passage is rare this season and any spots available may fill as soon as the become so."  
  
*****  
  
A man of thirty or so years stood at the front of a dining room that was extravagantly decorated. His name was known as Yorick and he allows the people to think that is his real name. He smiles to himself at that thought. He much prefers it to Mathew. He wears the painted mask he has carried with him for over a decade and in a loud, exaggerated voice he begins a routine of jokes and jest he has worked on for a few days. Loud bellows of laughter follow the jokes and Yorick smiles beneath the mask. He can distinguish one laugh from the rest and he knows it to be a compliment. Finishing the jokes he bows in acted awkwardness and trips on his face as he leaves to exit the room. Rising, he acts embarrassed as he runs from the room. Laughter follows him. Once out of sight of the crowd he removes the mask and wipes sweat that has gathered on his brow. He can hear lutes and other instruments begin to play and he begins to smile even broader than before. A voice from behind him says, "Well done, Yorick! The king was most pleased. We may have found our golden goose!" Yorick responds without turning. "Don't cook that goose yet, Andrew. We don't know if he will keep me. I hear that he tends to be more serious than anything. A jester may be a luxury he doesn't want." "Nonsense. You'll see. We've made it, finally." Andrew says, slapping Yorick on the back. The music has begun to die down and Yorick slips the mask into a cloth bag by his feet. From beside it he grabs another bag and his false teeth. Giving a short wave to Andrew he walks back towards the dining hall. Quickly, before he enters the room again, he slips ten colored balls from the cloth sack and puts them into the many pockets sewed into his clothing. As he enters the room he grins. These nobles will be astounded, if nothing else.  
  
*****  
  
"Yorick, my good man. Come here."  
A man of about thirty-six turns and walks towards the voice. He schools his face not to betray emotion as the man in front of him begins to talk again.  
"Yorick." He repeats. "You've not been present at the last two dinners. Is something the matter?"  
"Nothing, my lord. Just a sore ankle. I'll be present tonight though, I promise." Yorick responds.  
"Good, good. I'm looking forward to it, Yorick." The man says, walking away.  
Yorick allows a scowl to come to his face. "How I hate that man."  
"One should watch how one talks of the king's brother. Someone could hear and tell Claudius what you really think of him." A voice says from behind Yorick.  
Yorick spins around and then shakes his head. "You really shouldn't sneak around people, Andrew. Someone may mistake you for a spy."  
Andrew laughs and says, "Ah, the wit of a fool. How I missed it."  
Yorick shakes his head again and resumes walking. He has missed Andrew, who has been gone for months, and is glad for his company. In a castle where plots, maneuvering, and secrets swim like fish he is glad for a friend. He knows that he will never grasp politics as well as his namesake seemed to but his ability to read people has compensated for it.  
"Claudius is an oaf, Andrew. I loathe the man. He aspires to take the throne from his brother but has next to no backing from anyone who matters and his lust for Gertrude sickens me. Am I the only one who can see this?" Yorick says.  
Andrew chuckles. "Only a few do, Yorick. And we happen to be the majority of those people. I swear, you seem to have an uncanny ability to sniff out any secret you want. Probably even ones you don't want to. But you should be careful in what you say."  
Yorick sniffs. "Or what? That fool who's always following him around like a dog will come after me?" Yorick comes close to spitting. "Polonius sickens me even more. Not even a sliver of a backbone exists in that man."  
"And you say you can't read politics." Andrew clasps a hand on Yorick's shoulder. "Well my friend. We should see to getting a flagon of ale for ourselves. A celebration of friends, lets call it."  
  
*****  
  
The man named Yorick stands in the castle gardens and idly swirls his hand in a pond of fish. In his other hand he fingers a painted mask he has carried with him for a long time. He is, at best, content. He knows that he is where he wants to be but he feels as if something is missing.  
"Forty-five years old and still pining away for something. You should grow up." He mutters to himself.  
Taking his hand from the pond and wiping it on his pants he again opens a scroll that came to him a week ago.  
Yorick,  
The war with Norway draws near completion. If all goes well  
I should be home within a few months.  
I write this scroll with the knowledge that I can trust you  
and that you know my court.  
If I do not return from this next battle, I charge you with  
the welfare of my unborn son. Watch over him and guide him.  
I know this may seem an odd request but I have a feeling  
that he will not succeed me to the throne if I die. Pray  
for my soldiers and for me.  
~Hamlet  
  
Yorick rereads the scroll again. He cannot really believe that the king would entrust his unborn child to his jester, but he will do as the king requests. He lets the scroll re-roll itself and he goes back to swishing his hand in the pond.  
He finds it strange that a common child from London could grow to become a court jester, let alone a royal jester, but he finds it comical that that same common child would be charged with the care of the King of Denmark's child.  
A voice sounds from a top the parapets in the castle and Yorick looks up curiously.  
"Fortinbras is dead! Killed by the king! The war is over!"  
Yorick smiles. It appears that a messenger has arrived ahead of the army. He is about to turn his head back to the water when the voice sounds again.  
"The king's son is born! A son for the king!"  
Yorick shakes his head and smiles. Good news piled on good news. It seems that the king will be having a pleasant few months after all.  
He stands and dusts his pants off. He should go pay respects to the king's new son and the queen. He only hopes that Claudius will not be present.  
  
*****  
  
Yorick, now fifty, stands in front of a full-length mirror in his room and stares at himself. He is no longer thin and lean, able to somersault and backflip all over the place. He can barely climb the stairs to his room without losing his breath. He touches the top of his head and winces at the thinning hair.  
Abruptly his smiles and says, "At least I can still tell tales better than anyone in Europe. And my jokes still get the laughs they deserve." He laughs. "And these false teeth on my table do not have to replace my real teeth just yet."  
He stretches as much as his body will allow him and readies himself for another day of looking after Hamlet, the king's son.  
Even after returning alive, the king had insisted that Yorick be the one to watch Hamlet and play with him. He has evens started to teach the boy a few of his tricks.  
He only wishes that Andrew were still alive. Even with the king's trust behind him Yorick has no one he considers a friend in the Danish castle and that can be a dangerous thing.  
Finally reaching Hamlet's playroom Yorick finds himself quite out of breath. Taking a few deep breaths he opens the door and a young voice calls out.  
"Yorick! What are we going to do today?" the young Hamlet asks.  
Yorick smiles. "Have you ever seen a juggling act, Hamlet? A good one, I mean."  
Hamlet shakes his head and with a grin asks, "Can you show me one?"  
"Oh course. Watch closely though."  
With that said Yorick proceeds to dazzle the young boy with intricate designs of colorful balls in the air. He smiles broadly. He can still juggle, at least.  
  
*****  
  
"Hamlet, I want you to know that you were like a son to me." Yorick said. He feels himself close to tears. "Please don't forget me."  
Hamlet leaned over and hugged the jester tightly and Yorick held in a groan of pain. "Of course I won't, Yorick. I love you."  
Yorick smiled. "Aye boy. I love you too."  
Hamlet continues to cry. "Why did someone do this Yorick? Why?"  
Yorick allowed his eyes to wander to the window he was pushed from. He contemplated telling Hamlet what had happened but decided against it. Instead, he told him a something else.  
"Hamlet. Do not trust..." Yorick felt a pain hit his chest. He knew death was close and he tried to rush to finish his sentence. "Do not trust..." He felt his words trail away and he let the tears he has held back fall. He knew he could not stop them if he wanted too.  
He felt himself grow light and his vision began to fade. His head dropped to the side and his body went limp.  
Hamlet pushed himself back from the body and wrapped his arms around his legs. Slowly, he began to rock himself back and forth. His tear had seemed to dry up at that point and all he could do was rock himself and try to console himself.  
He stopped rocking when he felt something roll against his foot. He looked down and saw a bright red ball lying against his foot. Hamlet reached down and picked it up.  
Quietly, to himself, Hamlet said, "You were worth the world, Yorick." 


End file.
